Must Be Genetic
by Lady Altair
Summary: Five: No one really wondered why Toby Dursley's Potions marks took such a dramatic turn for the better after a detention in an abandoned dungeon. When she told Albus that the Angel of Potions sang to her, she was only half-joking. Next-gen, one-shots.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Must Be Genetic

Disclaimer: As of today, I am not a billionaire. This cuts me out of the running for 'people who might own Harry Potter.'

Author's Note: I don't even know what to make of this, or if it's even any good. Writing dark, sad things that make people cry--I trust my talent in that. This, I'm completely in the dark. BUT IT'S HAPPY...

OR AT LEAST NOT SAD. Should work until I can finish the current fluffy bits I'm working on.

* * *

The rather unfortunately named Scorpius Malfoy had the good sense to steer clear of anyone named 'Potter' or 'Weasley', but that was where his sensibilities ended.

He lounged in the doorway of a nearly empty compartment, a smirk on his face as he regarded its occupant. "Aw, look at him cry for his muggle mummy. Never been away from her, and now he's off to the big scary school, poor thing." It was odd, he spoke as though he had a comrade to hear him, but he stood alone, mocking the curly-haired boy who was curled in a seat clutching to a muggle photograph.

Al and Rose started as they began to shove belongings into the compartment next door, dropping their things to turn back to the bully. Before either of them could open their mouths, another voice rang from the corridor behind Malfoy.

"D'you have a problem with muggles?" a sharp voice inquired rather crisply. Al looked around to see a tall, coltish looking girl dressed in muggle clothing glaring daggers at the boy, setting down the over-large Burberry-plaid bag she'd been struggling with. Or at least she seemed to be glaring daggers—her long, thick blonde fringe fell over large, dark sunglasses with 'Prada' written ostentatiously over the sides. They overwhelmed her face in such a ridiculous way that they must have been terribly fashionable, and the effect rather dimmed the intensity of her stare.

Scorpius had the sense to recognize a poor idea, but arrogance enough to quash such sensibilities. "Not at all. It's only when we get these muggle pretenders thinking they can do magic…that's when we have a problem."

Albus started in now, angrily. "Hey!" He didn't have a chance for anything more, because the girl had seized the front of Malfoy's robes and shoved him through the door, into the compartment and then flush up against the window. Her skinny arms were obviously much stronger than they initially appeared, the horsy, adolescently-overlong bones layered over with lean muscle.

"Now," the girl said rather conversationally. "The nice thing about being muggleborn is that I don't need magic to kick your arse. My dad's a boxer, and he's showed me all sorts of ways to deal with bullies, and they're not very nice ways because there's nothing he hates more than a bully. I would love nothing more than to demonstrate, but I should hope that it won't be necessary."

She smiled at him benignly from where she towered at least four inches over his head as she released her hold on him. "You can go now."

And he did. With a shifty backwards glance at the girl, who had one dark-blonde eyebrow cocked at him expectantly over the black plastic of her frames, he slunk through the doorway.

Rose and Al peeked into the compartment, where the girl was comforting the still teary-eyed boy, her sunglasses now shoved up on her head. "Don't let the little prat get to you. I miss my mum, too," she told him in a very matter-of-fact tone. "He really might want to look into getting some minions or cronies of some sort. That kind of villainous monologuing is really ineffective when you're standing by yourself," she said dryly, eliciting a laugh from Malfoy's would-be victim.

Albus was impressed. "Brilliant work," he said by way of a greeting, stepping into the compartment. "Malfoys are always gits, apparently."

The girl turned and smiled, her overlong fringe hanging in her eyes in a way that looked too polished to be accidental. "Must be genetic."

"I'm Albus Severus Potter, nice to meet you…both of you," he added, smiling at the boy already seated.

"I'm his cousin, Rose Weasley," Rose said prettily, waving at the two of them.

"John Towler!" piped up the boy in the corner, looking delighted. It wasn't every day, of course, that the kids of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger, Wizarding Heroes, walked into your compartment and introduced themselves. His savior, however, was not impressed. Muggleborns tended not to be, of course, and this girl screamed 'Muggleborn'. She also screamed 'spoilt', with her expensive things, the way in which she carried herself as though she were something, and the imperious turn in her voice, but all three of her new companions seemed willing to forgive that in light of her actions.

"Albus Severus," she mused, looking over him, skinny finger tocked against her chin. "Funny name."

"Is not. I was named after very brave men!" Albus was already flaring red, all charitable thought towards this girl dissipating.

"Hey, my name's funny," she said calmly, tossing her hair. "I wasn't ripping you for it; I just like funny names. And I was named after people too...well, named to honor them, anyway, not really after them. And it's nice to meet you all," she said. "I'm October…well, Toby," she added as an afterthought. It seemed as though she was rather proud of her name, only hesitantly providing an acceptable nickname for them to use. "You two should come on in and join John and I. Should prove quite the party."

The blonde fell back into the seat opposite John, her designer rucksack tossed carelessly to the floor. She shook her hair out of her eyes at last, and Albus was momentarily stunned. He didn't know how she looked so familiar until she smiled at him, a rather charming smile that no doubt got her everything she'd ever asked for.

He was looking at an over-tall, sharper-boned, blonde-haired version of the eleven-year-old Lily Evans he had seen in his father's cherished photographs. He was looking at his own eyes, his father's eyes. He was looking at Lily Potter's eyes, set in a face more like hers than even her grandchildren could boast of.

"After all," she concluded, pushing her black sunglasses back down onto her nose and fluffing her fringe over them, "Anywhere Toby Dursley goes proves quite the party."


	2. Chapter 2

Changed 2/1/08 to account for recent canon See next chapter AN for details.

* * *

While Scorpius Malfoy stood in line waiting for the Sorting Hat, Toby Dursley laughed at his name. And for that, he could not forgive her.

It was hard enough at home; his mum hated the name and his younger sister ripped him for it on every occasion. As far as Scorpius was concerned, Ianthe was just damn lucky that Astoria Malfoy had not managed to bleed herself into unconsciousness immediately after the birth of her daughter, like she'd done for her first-born son. Scorpius felt a little guilty that he wished his mum _had_ done such a thing for Ianthe's birth, but if his father had managed to name his younger sister 'Libra', well, she could hardly even speak to him about silly names, could she?

Draco had seized upon the opportunity, during his wife's day-long bout of unconsciousness, to legally name his son Scorpius, after Astoria had placed a firm veto on said name and most such constellation derivatives.

She would've been ill-tempered upon awakening in any case; to find that her husband had saddled her brand-new son with a ridiculous name that she'd expressly rejected after she'd just nearly bled to death bringing him into the world—Scorpius sometimes doubted that, eleven years, three pregnancies, and three appropriately-named children later, his mother was finished dealing out her retribution.

To be truthful, Scorpius didn't like the name all-too-well himself, but before they'd left for the train station, his father had taken him into his library and given him a speech on upholding the family name and making his parents proud and "er…not making a bloody prat of yourself, if possible, son." He'd given him a hug, tight and warm.

Scorpius Malfoy didn't like his name, but he loved his father, who'd named him. When Toby Dursley laughed at his name, she laughed at his father. It was war.

…perhaps he shouldn't have been focussed so intensely on his loyalty to his father, because when the Sorting Hat had made its decision, Scorpius found that the only obviously open seat at the Hufflepuff table was directly next to the girl in question, who was smiling beatifically at him, her venom-green eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth.


	3. Chapter 3

Retroactively fixed the last chapter, changing my use of Daphne Greengrass to the canon, her younger sister Astoria. I'm not a fan of all of the post-DH interview information, but I do pick and choose what I want to use.

Just to repeat myself, **this isn't really a chaptered fic**; there's no overhanging plot, **it won't be updated with any regularity**, it's just a collection of ficlets from the post-DH world of my imagining because I find them entertaining to write from time to time, especially when I'm either on a roll with my writing (as I am now) or completely stuck and needing to write something light and that I don't expect much depth from.

* * *

Neville Longbottom is, for a good fifteen seconds, completely ready to thrash the life out of Harry Potter. 

Two pairs of those green almond eyes was one more pair than he was expecting to see. He's seen enough photographs of the elder Lily Potter to see the uncanny resemblance between her and the skinny, mouthy Hufflepuff he had to set to detention on the very first day of class.

His immediate assumption is some extra child with another woman, that this October…_Dursley_. The name calms his wild imaginings. He remembers enough about Harry's unpleasant relations to recognize it. The illogical rush of images (a slighted Ginny, a conniving, slick, handlebar-mustache-twirling Harry, etcetera) runs away, and he is left with the fact that October Dursley is going to be the death of him.

Scorpius Malfoy looks somewhere between tears and murderous rage, sitting beside a blackly gleeful Toby, his wand clutched dangerously tight. He worried about the new Gryffindors (his old house is generally the place to look for the trouble-makers) but it seems in this particular class, the "goodnatured" and "loyal" Hufflepuffs are overturning conventions. At this point, with a Malfoy wearing yellow and black, he really shouldn't be surprised.

By the end of class, he's had to deduct more points from Hufflepuff than is sane, and both Toby and Scorpius have to report to Madam Pomfrey for some attention; Scorpius, his face a swollen, blotchy purple mess from a completely innocent allergic reaction to something in the greenhouse, and Toby for the hex he sent at her, convinced she'd done something (her green eyes are now far too big for her face, making her look like some demented owl, a la Professor Trelawney minus the spectacles.)

As the Hufflepuff/Gryffindor class rushes out, and a few of the first-year Ravenclaws arrive (an _hour_ early, the eager little geeks) for the Slytherin/Ravenclaw class, Neville really, truly hopes that the newly-minted Slytherin Albus is still as mild as he remembers, and that mischief doesn't come coded in DNA along with those pretty green eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Nike Finnigan was the prettiest girl in seventh year. She was also James Potter's best friend, clever as anything, and a big mess—her Gryffindor tie undone, socks slouching, shirt untucked, hair uncombed.

If Toby Dursley had idols—which she didn't, and especially not Gryffindors—Nike Finnigan would be it. It came to a pinnacle after Christmas holidays, on the Hogwarts Express back to school. She'd found the Potters on the platform and enlisted their assistance in dragging her new piece of luggage—Louis Vuitton—filled with her Christmas gifts onto the train. James was complaining bitterly as he hefted the luggage onto the rack, as his fifteen-year-old cousin fussed at him about scuffing the leather, when Nike appeared in the door to the compartment, in a towering teenage rage.

She flung a copy of the _Daily Prophet _at James, folded open to an article on the Auror's Ball and Toby screeched as her new luggage slipped out of his grasp and hit him on the head. He cursed roundly, giving a retaliatory kick to Toby's bag, and his cousin whimpered with sympathy pains (for the bag). "The hell, Nike?"

"_I'm not going this year," _Nike fumed, disposing of her thick Kilkenny accent and cruelly mimicking James'."That's what you tell me, you fuckin' liar!" James had gone guiltily white, looking down at the article. "Not goin' with me is what, you fucker! And with who? Who?" She reached down and snatched the paper back, rolling it up and whapping James hard upside the head. "Who?" she prompted murderously, shaking her long messy waves of auburn hair out of her face and giving James a look that made clear that she expected him to answer.

"Josie Hill," he answered meekly, in a cowed sort of voice that shocked Toby deeply; it was nothing she ever expected to hear from James Potter.

"That's right! And look, look! Isn't that a pretty picture? You look like you're having a damn fine time for someone who wasn't going!" She flung the paper at James violently, but it caught the wind and the pages flurried around him and scattered across the room.

And then Nike turned and marched out. James, looking rather queasy, followed her out and slammed the compartment door behind him, leaving Toby alone in the compartment with her ill-treated luggage. She was just climbing up onto the seat to carefully place her bag in the luggage rack when James returned, cursing and holding his face.

"Bitch hit me!" he whined incredulously, settling hard down onto the plush seats.

Toby shrugged. "You lied to your best friend and took another girl to the Auror's Christmas Ball, when you've been taking her since second year. You're lucky Nike didn't knee you, I've seen her do that." She settled the bag into the rack and hopped down to the floor, throwing herself back into her seat with a distinct lack of elegance.

"It's not like we're dating," James muttered with all the 'misunderstood and world-wronged teenage boy' attitude he could manage (and he could manage pretty much). He removed his hands from his face and Toby _laughed. _

"Your eye is a _mess, _Jamesie."

"_She's _a mess, too," he replied sourly, testing his swelling black eye with his fingertips and wincing.

"What, did you hex her?" Toby asked, rather surprised.

"_No, _I don't hex girls." He frowned deeper, apparently failing to be thrilled with Toby's assessment of his character. "No, she's just a mess _all the time."_

Toby laughed again, a little less maliciously. "Oh, come off it James. You like her."

"I absolutely do not!" he started, wide-eyed as though the thought had never occurred to him.

"Oh, okay, my mistake," Toby conceded, a little too easily. She dug into her handbag and pulled out a magazine. She flipped through it casually, turning her attention away from James.

"Why would you think that?" he pressed, leaning forward and looking concerned.

"No reason," Toby demurred, not pulling her eyes away from her magazine.

James sat back in his seat and stewed for a minute. "It's not like she even had that much fun, or she went out and bought new robes for it or something. We always just hung out in the corner and got into trouble for something. Josie had a good time—she had new robes and her hair done and… don't know why Nike cares, I didn't think she would."

"If you thought that, you would've told her who you were taking," Toby offered casually.

There was a long silence as the train pulled out of the station, Toby feigning interest in her magazine while actually studying a sulking James from behind it. Twenty minutes outside London, she finally snapped.

"Well, I hope whatever sordid favors you got from Josie Hill were worth your best friend," she said calmly.

"It hasn't cost me my best friend," James said smartly, though there was a shadow of worry on his face.

"Which is why you're sitting in here with your fifteen-year-old relative and not off heckling Slytherins with Nike. Where's Josie, anyway? I'm sure she'd keep you company."

He colored and set his mouth into a sullen line. "She's—"

"Annoying and unreasonable and ever-present, complete with doglike obedience and similar clinginess?" James looked like he was going to be ill and Toby smiled humorlessly. "Well, she's not really. You just think so because she likes you more than you like her. She's a lot less of a cow than Nike is, and I'm not just defending a fellow Hufflepuff."

"Nike's not a cow," James snapped, wincing as his offended facial contortions reminded him of the black eye the girl in question had just given him.

"Of course she is," Toby said, exasperated, setting down her magazine. "She's an unreasonable cow with a nasty temper and a spiteful streak." Considering for a minute, she added thoughtfully, "And she's related to Scorpius. _Definitely_ a cow, if not running into 'raging bitch' territory."

"I don't have to listen to this. Fuck off, Toby," James snapped, snatching up his bag and storming back out into the corridor.

Toby calmly went back to her muggle magazine, and was not at all surprised when Scorpius came snarling in a few minutes later. "Prat James just tossed me out of my own compartment. Suppose this one's free."

"I suppose he came in to renew the row with Nike?" Toby enquired, only vaguely interested.

"Suppose I should thank him. She was being an annoying cow, on and on about some bint James picked over her, all this obnoxious girl whinging."

"I am definitely expecting to be included in that wedding party, I've listened to enough of each whinging about the other." Scorpius snorted in agreement, and Toby added, "And if I'm ever that obviously in stupid love with someone like that, tell me so."

"Oh, I'll be sure to," Scorpius said, rolling his eyes. "Can't I just hex you? A really nice one, just to get the point across?"

"Only if I'm in love with _you_. Then I'd deserve it."

Scorpius scowled. "Oh, _hah," _he sneered, before slumping into the window seat across from her, his bag abandoned on the floor.

"There is a luggage rack less than a meter above your head." Her eyebrow quirked at Scorpius' _so what _expression. "You should take better care of your things, who knows what's been on this floor?" Toby sniffed, looking with distaste at the bag on the floor.

"And maybe you should try having a conversation without a magazine in your face and look at me." Scorpius kicked the bag for good measure and Toby fought a grin, pressing the magazine closer to her face to further antagonize him.

"God, I've missed nagging you."

"Yeah, well…"

"Oh, tell me you've missed my nagging! Three weeks without a 'Scorpius, do your essay!' or 'Scorpius, your tie's not right!' or—."

A hand came down on top of the magazine, crumpling it down into her lap and Toby's eyes followed it rather dazedly. "Maybe I just missed _you_, Dursley. Can I kiss you now or are you going to make me and James a matching pair?"

"I'd hate to make you and James a pair of _anything, _amusing though that might be. Figure we've had enough scathing, acid friend banter?" Scorpius grinned, and Toby leaned forward to kiss him chastely. Scorpius pushed for more and she shoved him away playfully, shaking her sunny blonde fringe out of her face.

"We'll ruin our reps. Next thing you know, Nike is going to throw James through that door and blow our cover. The first time I hear 'star-crossed lovers' I'm dumping you."

Scorpius nodded, looking only vaguely disappointed. "Yeah, I figure. Anyway, if we end up getting married, I want it to be a _shock. _Maybe give my granddad a heart attack; my mum would throw a party."

"For you marrying a muggle-born relative of Harry Potter, boy-who-lived?"

Scorpius shook his head. "Nah, for us killing my granddad. They hate each other."

"Your family is _fucked, _Scorpius_."_

"Your grandparents kept our wizarding savior locked under a staircase for eleven years."

Toby shrugged. "Your grandparen—nah, that's too easy. And kinda low, even for me."

"Is there anything too low for you?"

Toby didn't even consider before shooting back, "Dating you, suppose not."

Scorpius grinned. Toby grinned.

And outside in the corridor Nike Finnigan bodily shoved James Potter into a wall and kissed him.

* * *

Holy crap, was this ever FUN to write. I attempted some comic, witty repartee, and I want to know how that came off--let me know!

Some of you may recognize Nike Finnigan from _Chase This Light, _and as I was writing that chapter, I got to thinking about how she'd fit in next-gen. And thus this was born. Did I shock anyone with the whole Scorpius/Toby thing?

So, this may not be chronological. Oh well. And, as always, I'm going to remind everyone **THIS WILL NOT BE UPDATED REGULARLY.** I love to hear from everyone and all, and every review is very much appreciated, but nagging me to update this goes nowhere. The ideas have to just come to me!

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

No one particularly wondered about the miraculous turn Toby Dursley's potions work took for the better after April of her fourth year of school. It was generally concluded that she'd matured over the Easter holidays, or else got a good talking-to from her parents about her formerly abysmal marks.

Neither was true. She was as useless as ever, and she could count on no fingers the times her parents had given her 'a good talking-to.' Add that to the fact that she had misinformed her parents on the grading scale (P, D, and the dreaded T, instead of representing, respectively, 'poor', 'dreadful' and 'troll', meant to the ignorant Dursleys 'prestigious', 'distinguished' and 'transcendent'—although her mother had looked suspiciously on Toby's single 'transcendent' and, in retrospect, she shouldn't have got clever with the 't' and just stuck with 'terrific') and there was no reason she should have showed such a marked improvement.

She had, at length, merely scraped by in Potions marks on the coattails of her more dedicated partner, a good-natured Hufflepuff yearmate with an eagerness to get her hands slimy. Toby found the theory of Potions mildly interesting and the applications very useful; the practicality of it, however, with its newts' eyes and chopped-up slugs and insect bits, a touch too distasteful. And hadn't she walked by an apothecary in Diagon once? In any case, Potions was certainly a superfluous talent: Toby Dursley had been taught nothing if not how to be an avid consumer. Potions could be purchased with little to no effort on her part—no one had ever thought her a Hufflepuff of the 'hardworking' department.

A week into her first term, her owl had arrived with a package from home containing, among many other things, a muggle box of latex gloves. She carried them with her to each and every Potions class and refused to so much as touch the desk without them. It was a good friend she'd made in Lauren Allen, who was more than happy to squelch her fingers around in god-knows-what while Toby gingerly turned pages with gloved hands and tried not to breathe through her nose.

It was when partnered potions became few and far between, and individual work began to count for most everything, that her marks began to take a nose-dive. And it was then, definitely, that Toby regretted the whole 'T means transcendent!' bit of nonsense she'd fed her parents, because a great deal of her Potions work was 'transcendent.'

And then, things about-faced. And Toby had her trusty latex gloves to thank. And Scorpius Malfoy and his unfortunate allergy.

He deserved it, she held obstinately. Well, maybe not the whole 'deadly allergy to latex' (was the prat allergic to _everything? _They still hadn't figured out what had set off his rash in the Herbology lesson first year and he wasn't allowed in that particular greenhouse.) but she couldn't feel _too _sorry for him.

He _had_ sprinkled pickled woodlice in her hair and, as far as retaliations went, snapping one of her gloves at him _shouldn't _have been so bad (in fact, it was only a start, and she had been dredging her mind for ideas when he started to swell up).

He'd ended up _fine. _And it was _mostly _an accident. Toby still got detention. Scorpius laughed at her when she snuck up to see him in the hospital wing, so she tossed the homework she'd had Lauren collect for him out the window as she left, ignoring Scorpius' hissed "oh, don't be like that, Toby!"

And she'd even been pondering how a 'sorry about almost accidentally killing you' might have gone over. Well, see if he ever heard it now! And the next time his hands started exploring when they were snogging, she was going to _bite him. _Or maybe she'd just let her hands start exploring in return; find out _just_ how allergic Scorpius was those latex gloves.

It was in one of the barely used potions labs in the dungeon. Picking dead silkworms out of their cocoons. No magic, no wand and (worst of all) no gloves. They'd been confiscated as a danger to a fellow student.

She'd moaned to herself the whole time, squealing when one of the nasty little bastards wasn't _quite _dead.

"You know you've done those _all wrong."_ The voice came from nowhere, cool and disdainful.

"Well, I don't particularly care that they're _all wrong,_" Toby snapped back, still bent over the table, knife in hand. "They're _all done." _

"They're _useless, _you twit. If you're going to be disturbing my peace in here, you ought to be doing something worthwhile. You used a silver knife. Silver completely ruins the--"

"Well then, it's all completely ruined!" Toby informed him. "I'm done. And who the hell are you?" She squinted into the dim lights (really? Who thought that the dungeons were an adequate potion-brewing setting? Clean, sterile white and lots of autoclaved stainless steel and fluorescent lighting; muggles had the right idea about that. Give her some of that and maybe she'd see what she could do.) trying to make out the speaker

"What am I, you mean." The voice had taken a subtle turn for the sullen. "I'm a portrait."

"Oh." There was a painting in the room—a big one that made it look like the room was twice the size it was, for it was a perfect mirror of the lab in oil paint. She didn't see anyone in it. Toby considered for a minute, grimacing as she picked a bit of something-or-other from under her fingernail. "Well, then, _who _are you? Portraits usually imply people, but maybe you're a particularly talkative cauldron with some kind of wannabe complex."

There was a long pause and then, with no small amount of irony in the tone, he answered, "The half-blood prince."

"Oh, clever," Toby said flatly, looking up from her ruined nails. "Maybe I should think of something pithy like that. 'Mudblood Madam,' how's that sound?"

The half-blood prince was quiet. "People still use that word?" he asked, very, very quietly.

"A few. Not been called one to my face, but it gets whispered, I think," Toby admitted, shrugging her shoulders. "What do you expect? Something that ugly doesn't go away."

Another long silence followed; Toby figured the half-blood prince, whatever or whoever he was, had gone and she began to pack her things.

"Don't call yourself that. It's too ugly for you." The voice was still out of nowhere, and there was a strange, familiar inflection on the 'you'.

"Just for me?" Toby said, feeling contrary. Another long pause.

"No, it's an unbecoming word for anyone," he said after the moment, with the grim solemnity of something dearly paid for.

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way. Later," she said, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, sweeping out the sheet of long golden hair from under it and waving a blind hand at the empty canvas in farewell.

"You must be terrible at Potions," the voice said, quickly, a transparent attempt to stay her.

"Eh," she said with a wiggly sort of 'so-so' hand movement. "I manage."

"You could do well. If you come back, I'll help you."

Toby was skeptical, suspicious. "Why would you do that? What's in it for you?"

"If you must know, I was a teacher, and I quite miss it. Are you coming back?"

"Maybe."

She went back two weeks later, after receiving another 'transcendent' on a Potions assignment. "Hello, you still in here?" she yelled, waving about a heavily marked-up essay. "I'm pants at Potions and I hate touching anything nasty. Can you fix that?" she asked the empty painting.

"I can't _fix_ anything. And I can't help lazy idiots." The half-blood prince was obviously in a strop about her extended absence.

Toby persisted, her hands on her hips. "Well, good, because I'm only half of that."

"So you're a _hardworking_ idiot. Forgive me, I'd forgotten that yellow and black on your tie."

"No, I'm a lazy savant," Toby snapped. "Look, if that's how you want it, _fine, _I won't come back." She turned on her heel, entirely prepared to make good on her threat, when he stopped her.

"You did bring your book with you?" he asked, condescension dripping from his voice.

She stalled. "Yes?" she asked, still not quite trusting the direction the conversation had taken.

"Well, sit down and get it out. I have some notes you need to add in the margins. I trust a _lazy savant_ can manage to overcome her squeamishness to follow simple directions, yes?"

Toby nodded slowly, doing as she was told.

No one thought to ask why Toby Dursley's marks improved so dramatically. Her friends often complained about her seemingly intuitive, newfound talent.

"You must be cheating, Toby, no _way," _Albus Severus accused, looking over her shoulder at her evaluation slip from the last practical exam. Toby smiled smugly as Rose looked on, stricken—her mark was a point lower than Toby's perfection.

"Yes," Rose agreed, a little snappier than normal; a Weasley temper combined with Hermione's thirst for perfection made her quite an ungraceful loser. "_Cheater_," Rose huffed; that was the greatest, most blasphemous insult she had to bestow.

"Seriously, how are you doing it?" Albus asked after Rose had flounced off in disapproval. "I won't tell her."

"The angel of potions; he sings to me in the dark," Toby deadpanned, rolling her eyes and shoving the parchment into her Louis Vuitton blue jean tote bag. "I can be smart." At Albus' skeptic look, she added, shrugging, "If I really want to."

Toby Dursley managed through her Hogwarts years with the best marks anyone had seen since the likes of Lily Potter—_that must be it, _most concluded, drawing more lines between Toby Dursley and her great-aunt, again noting the uncanny similarities in their looks, which grew more pronounced as Toby grew older. _That's the talent in the blood, _it was generally decided. _Must be genetic._

She failed exactly one examination after that detention in the abandoned dungeon laboratory. A hair-growth potion in her sixth year failed utterly, despite the carefully noted (although rather more numerous than usual) changes she noted in her textbook, just like her 'half-blood' mentor—still unseen—had dictated. When she went to test her potion, absolutely nothing happened. The professor's mouth had dropped open unattractively; he had since learned to count on her for a perfect example.

Three weeks later, though, it became obvious that the potion had not been the dud that Toby had so angrily lambasted the ever-invisible Half-blood Prince for during her next extracurricular lesson. A glint of red near the roots of her hair became more obviously dark auburn against the beautiful, silky, natural golden blonde Toby was so proud of.

Toby Dursley's hair, to her great fury, grew in brilliantly and immutably auburn for the rest of her life, the exact same shade of red that Severus Snape had once thought so perfectly beautiful on Lily Evans.

* * *

I'm still on holiday, but this has been chilling unedited on my harddrive for a few days. I fixed it up during a thunderstorm today when I was having a mini-block on Hestia and Walden, and the traitorous wifi connection I have at the beach house here is cooperating for the moment, so I decided to upload it! Hope this satisfies everyone who's been waiting; it's been nearly a year since I published this fic, and this chapter was the second that I envisioned after I came up with Toby as a character. It was, however, ungodly hard to write. I feel really uncomfortable writing Snape, especially with this character, looking as much like Lily as I have her. I couldn't get the balance between snark and desperate affection right. Let me know how I've done, please?


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